The Prime Minister, Writing, and an Unethical Psychology Experiment

When a country’s leader chooses to attend a Star Wars premiere with twenty sick kids from a children’s hospital—as our newly elected Prime Minister did last month—one wouldn’t think the resulting photo would generate controversy. Not when there is richer material to mine on the subject of his social media use.

For example, on the campaign trail, Justin Trudeau’s signature move was to pose for selfies with clamoring admirers. He continued the practice in the broader world at the G20. In December he and his wife graced the pages of Vogue in a smoldering photoshoot which, with judicious cropping, might easily be mistaken for the cover art of a romance novel. On two past occasions he willingly shed his shirt for charity fundraisers, his abs earning the vocal admiration of celebrity bloggers who promptly declared him a PMILF. (Click here for a NSFW translation.)

With a known photogenic, media-cultivating PM, why flip out about this particular photo?

For some the occasion itself was commendable, but the photographer’s presence confirmed a hidden and unworthy motivation. (A Zen koan for politicians: If a leader fails to have a recording device present during a social occasion, did the event really occur?)

Another group sees it as confirmation of our PM’s suspected self-absorption and shallowness. (You’re so vain, you probably think this picture-with-ailing-kids is about you.)

For others it’s fantastic—proof we elected the right guy after a decade with a leader who played cheese grater to our knuckles.

Some see it as a natural extension to his interest in youth and former work as a drama and language arts teacher.

I say, why limit oneself? It could be any combination of the above and point to a powerful fifth motivation—one which has relevance for our writing. To access it, let’s briefly travel briefly back in time.

The Seamy Side of Human Nature

In July 1961, a year after Adolf Eichmann’s trial, Stanley Milgram recruited volunteers for a series of experiments which would be unlikely to get past any modern ethics committee. Participants were told they were helping to evaluate whether punishment facilitated learning. In reality, because of the so-called Nuremburg defense—I did it because I was told to—they were being studied for their susceptibility to authority.

The bottom line of the study: With minimal prompting by a man in a lab coat, for the sake of science, a full 65% of average American test subjects were willing to administer electric shocks to fellow citizens up to and including doses which triggered perceived suffering, unconsciousness and death.

Let me emphasize that: fatal electrocution was on the table for 26 out of 40 individuals.

Future experiments would confirm this number applied to participants in all wealthy Western countries. (For all we know it might apply to less affluent areas of the world, but they weren’t studied.)

If you can forgive the pun, Milgram seized these shocking results as a basis for further experimentation. He tweaked the original study design to see what conditions might lead to higher rebellion rates. Subjects were more likely to stop the experiment and refuse to participate if:

They received signals that the authority figure was less than authoritative. (The lab was located in a run-down neighborhood versus the Yale campus. The researcher wore ordinary clothes rather than a lab coat.)

They could not remain at arm’s length from the suffering. (They were required to physically push the learner’s hand onto the shock plate. Or they could not delegate the task of pushing the button to a confederate.)

They witnessed other people refusing to comply with the experimenter’s requests, thus gaining an external model of resistance.

They had physical distance from the person asking them to continue with the program of shocks. (The orders were delivered by phone from another room rather than in person.)

Gave themselves permission to evaluate authority against a personal standard of moral judgment (which may or may not have been derived from religion);

And most critically, had rehearsed a rebellion in the past, either via thought experiments or real life experience. (They might have studied people such as Gandhi and Martin Luther King; or read about the the Milgram experiments, such as you’re doing now, and come to understand their vulnerabilities. In real life, they might have participated in protest marches. Or their professions forced them to deal with values-authority conflicts.)

It’s as if they had occasion to say to themselves, prior to the Milgram experiment, “If I intentionally hurt another person when I could have avoided doing so, I know I’ll have lost my way.”

Which brings us back to Canada’s PM, and what I believe to be the motivation behind his Star Wars premiere photo.

Trudeau’s father was a career politician who also served as our PM for a number of years, beginning when Trudeau Junior was a young child. Thus, the son coped with his parents’ divorce and his family’s wrenching dissolution while under public scrutiny. He had an eye-witness view of how the position changes people, and not always for the better.

Via coded language in interviews, I believe Trudeau’s childhood experience acted as a rehearsal for his upcoming political experiment. It led to him internalizing specific standards and establishing clear markers of personal integrity in advance of when he would be tested. I’d venture he’s made statements like these to his wife: I know I’ll have lost my way when I no longer make time for my own family. Or in this case of this Star Wars premiere, or when he sat with an autistic boy on the steps of our Parliament, I know I’ll have lost my way when I can’t make time for a struggling child.

Two Significant Implications for Writing

At the personal level, outside our relationship with words and the page, almost everything writers do requires us to work with other people.Heck, in the editorial process, at the level of the page, we’re asked to consider others’ wishes! In the heat of the moment it can be tricky to weigh our desire for approval against our desire for integrity, but a little advance preparation can ensure we’ll land on the side of our better natures.

The following are a list of prompts which might help you get started on the process. I’d suggest you grab a piece of paper and see what happens when you answer them without censorship.

When it comes to book marketing/social media, I know I’ll have lost my way if ____.

When coping with rejection and setbacks, I know I’ll be living in my integrity if I ___.

In my relationship with my publisher or agent, I know I’ll have lost my way if ____.

If the universe should be willing and my writing achieves significant success, I’ll know I’m living my values if ____.

Should I have to deal with a hostile and critical blogger, I wish to handle their attention by____.

What have I omitted that’s relevant for you? For instance, if you are self-published, do you need to think through your relationship with your book formatter? Or maybe you’re thinking of taking on a writing partner. Do you need to discuss this list together?

Now, what about applying this to characters? Does your story question revolve in any way around integrity or self-discovery? Does your main character wrestle with setting boundaries? If so, can you use the findings from the Milgram experiment to ensure your characters run through an integrity gauntlet of maximal intensity? (Make their challenger comparatively powerful and authoritative. Keep your protagonist isolated. Make their boundary-crossing personal and unambiguous.)

Milgram’s experiment would flunk today’s ethics committees because he failed to adequately protect his subjects from the potentially harmful self-knowledge it provided. (I’m the kind of person who’d kill another because I was asked.) All the more reason for us to take what he learned and, five decades later, use it prepare ourselves for writing-related professional challenges. Also, to create integrity tests of equivalent harshness for our characters. By inviting readers to witness moral challenges in a novel or short story, you can create a proofing ground for future integrity.

Be part of the 35%. Help the 35% to grow.

This is your work.

Now, Unboxeders, the floor is yours. Tell us about your writing and if/how it has required you to fight a moral battle between your conscience and an authority figure. Did you win? If not, what did you learn?

Wish you could buy this author a cup of joe?

A former family physician and academic, Jan O'Hara left the world of medicine behind to follow her dreams of becoming a writer. She writes love stories (Opposite of Frozen; Cold and Hottie) and contributed to Author in Progress, a Writer's Digest Book edited by Therese Walsh.

Comments

Jan, you always give us so much to think about. I love the questions you posed. As for personal challenges; I severed a long-standing teacher/student association with someone who’s practices no longer worked for me. In truth, they hadn’t been working for some time. But because we had become friends, I ignored my gut, which was telling me that it was time to go. Other battles with ‘authority figures’ have been mostly with people to whom I’ve given the power of judgement over how much time I spend working. I’ve since taken back that power and life is much more pleasant! I’ve also learned to listen to my gut. It whispers a lot, so I have to keep my mouth shut to really hear it. It’s an ongoing practice, though, very much like writing. Thanks for a wonderful post.

Such an interesting post, Jan. Protagonists tend to be anti-authoritarian. Loners. Outsiders. Rule breakers. Isolated. On a solitary quest.

Protagonists also tend to be principled. They have moral codes, a sense of justice and fairness/unfairness. They are on the side of right, if not resistance.

What protagonists often do not have are authentic reasons for those qualities. Frequently they are manipulated into principled-loner status by negative circumstances rather than being inspired by the positive influence of study and real world examples.

Thus, a question for story development is this: Who is your protagonist’s mentor? How did he come by his goodness?

Struggling against authority for writers, if you ask me, is the struggle against writing rules, genre tyranny, industry superstitions and the pressure of social media conformity.

Really meaningful and deep-thought-provoking, Boss. Not so very long ago, after I already had four completed manuscripts, a beta-reader suggested that my focus on the leaders of my story world might be a slight hindrance to my publication goals. The idea is that we like to experience the extraordinary times of characters who are otherwise “regular folks” (more like us).

Although I completely understand the theory, I was startled at the time. I’ve always wanted to write about extraordinary people in extraordinary times. It’s where integrity tests have the greatest leverage. The choices are very often life or death ones. I suppose one of my greatest literary aspirations is that I’m up to the task of conveying through my characters that I’ve actually wrestled soul-deep with the issues I have them confront.

While I understand their point, your interests would seem to align with much of the publishing world, Good Sir V. Look at the market for historical fiction, for instance. While a historical protagonist might begin in humble circumstances, we’re ultimately interested in the kings, queens, and popes of yesteryear. They can be tested as severely as ordinary folk, and the consequences of their failure are far-reaching.

I have every confidence you’re putting your protagonists through the wringer. ;)

A thought, Vaughn: What fascinates us about royalty, leaders and heroes is what makes them regular human beings; what fascinates us about regular human beings is what makes them noble, far-seeing and brave.

Jan– In my never-humble opinion, I think this is your best post to date at Writer Unboxed. What you say about the famous Milgram experiments–and Trudeau–has wide application for writers who want to develop complex characters. My central character often grapples with internal struggles. Yes, she’s exposed to pressures from without, like those in the Milgram experiments. And yes, she has sources of guidance–mentors is what Donald Maass calls them. But for the most part I force my character to make choices without reliance on role models, guides, experts, etc. Those who might help are absent or dead. She is on her own with her private wounds, so it’s pretty much up to her to sort through the hodgepodge of experience and encounters, to arrive at meaning and make choices. Thanks again for a thought-provoking post.

I think you’re on to something when you suggest that being part of the 35% requires habits of mind that are developed long before one has to act in the moment, both for our characters and for us. And I’m interested in how that process occurs. The capacity for self-reflection seems important–and so does the quality of mentors, especially for young people. Now I’m pondering my own protagonist and trying to figure out how to add more of those integrity tests to the story.

SK, you wouldn’t be the first to be intrigued by the idea of creating an educational process. If you’re interested, I found this article to be a good beginning: http://www.rit.org/authority/resistance.php I agree that self-reflection would seem to be a necessity. How else can we examine our relationship to authority?

Good luck in the application. Hoping this piece has been of some service!

In a way, the massive amount of criticism given to your PM because of the events in this photo was to experience what it is like to be the victim of torture prepetuated by a nameless mob. One can imagine when someone does something kind, only to be jabbed relentlessly by those condemning the act as insincere. Most would give up and retreat as far as death to escape the attacks.

I agree, Thea. IF I’m even 10% correct in my assessment of his motivation, what damage has been done by a cynical assessment and the resulting attacks? There has to be a balance between scrutiny and generosity; we swing too often to the former with respect to each other, never mind our public figures.

Jan– I reread your post, and can’t resist adding something. Why exactly would modern ethics committees flunk Milgram, just because he “failed to protect his subjects from the potentially harmful self-knowledge it provided”? If I apply this idea to the debates among Republican aspirants to the presidency in my country, the debates should not be televised. Seeing the massive crowds and support for people who advocate measures at odds with our “core values” has the potential for dangerous self-knowledge. I would argue that the most important knowledge is always dangerous.

Yes. And there is a chance that people in those debates will come to be embarrassed/ashamed of their participation. The difference is one of consent. They signed up to be there, crafted their banners, etc. Even then–so far, anyway, because things could yet get out of hand–the worst that can be said of them is that they’ve said harsh words or implied they agreed with bigotry.

In contrast, the Milgram subjects were deceived as to the purpose of their study. More importantly, they thought they could be directly responsible for a death. 30% of them, in fact, were willing to force the “learner’s” hand down on the electric plate. So at minimum, these days, there would need to be a psychologist on hand to detect their distress at their ruptured self-concept, and to provide ongoing counseling, if required.

I’m going to answer your question by stealing Don’s perfect words: “Struggling against authority for writers, if you ask me, is the struggle against writing rules (I’ve killed the dog, included dream sequences, and written at least a half dozen scenes that have characters talking over coffee), genre tyranny (I write cross-genre), industry superstitions (too many to list here) and the pressure of social media conformity (just joined facebook yesterday – apparently hell has frozen over).”

Jan, this is such a fascinating post. I’ve read about the Milgram experiment before and on that subject… Philip K Dick ‘ s novel The Man in the High Castle, was recently made into a TV series by Amazon. The basis for the story is an alternate history. The Nazis win the war and they and their axis allies the Japanese have divided America up. This story is about a rebel propaganda film (in the TV series, in the novel it’s a book)that shows what the opposite effect would be if WW II was won by the allies. It’s a fascinating and terrifying study. And very well done. If you get a chance, watch it. I think you’ll be hooked.

Jan, I think when developing one’s MC (and mine falls into the definition that Don gave), we actually find doors opening on our own lives and how we are living them. Developing a REAL character is a challenge on the page, but it also challenges us. Maybe our character has qualities that we lack and so we insert them into the story to see how it would feel to be that person. Your post explores these questions. Thank you.

Love this food for thought, Jan! My protagonist (who you sat next to at a memorable lunch) is a highly principled team player who, nevertheless, becomes a rebel and a mercenary. He’s culturally wired to accept authority and defer to his culture. But when he sees, up close, how the current king behaves, and how he doesn’t trust God (who is the source of my protag’s high principles), my protag gradually and with great reluctance, is forced to accept that the current regime will not last, and that he is to head up the next one. But it’s interesting that, even as a rebel, he refuses to kill the current king, and refuses to face his forces in any kind of battle — so he maintains his high principles of respecting those who the Lord anoints. He respects a higher authority than the king, in other words. Interesting lens through which to evaluate my story. This will be helpful to keep in mind as I write!

Interesting mashup of Milgram and Trudeau. It must be so hard for someone in the public eye to resist letting them define him. For me, it is about personal responsibility: taking responsibility for ensuring your actions align with your principles.

This concept was brought home to me one day in university. The professor hadn’t shown up for a Social Psychology class. We had a midterm coming up and had expected to spend the class intensively reviewing for it. We sat there waiting for him, or for the obligatory 20 minutes to pass before leaving.

As it turned out, he was sitting in a dark corner in the back, waiting to see if anyone would step up and start the review in the absence of the authority figure.

Wow, the idea of setting up a what-if for various potentially dicey moral quandaries *before they ever happen* is simply brilliant. I don’t think I would’ve thought of that in a million years. Sure, I might imagine having to occasionally choose between right/wrong and where that line is, and we all have to analyze our current/recent actions sometimes, but the idea of setting it up ahead of time, before the details cloud things over and anything feels tricky, is really wonderful. It gives our morality room to be concrete before our desires and the specifics tempt us the other direction. I’m definitely going to do this and use it for other things. Very cool.

Annie, I inadvertently set an advance limit up for myself in medicine. I’d seen interactions I found abhorrent and promised myself I’d *never* make them part of my practice. Then the day came when I wanted to cross the line. Because of the preparation, I left and got help before other people paid the price. What was shocking to me was how it crept up. I thought I was coping, and then blam! I was about to fail an integrity test.

I understand the seduction despite your advance limit. I developed and led a program in medical education. I almost caved to my promise to self and students regarding confidentiality (except in cases of danger to oneself or others). It is too long of a story to put down here, but I was saved from having to go the final round by revealing a fact that would have saved me. I was relieved of making that decision by becoming disabled and having to take leave from work. Never able to return I didn’t have to make the decision. I’d like to think I would have kept my promise. Uppermost in my mind was failing the students I found most unlikely to seek counseling. But I know that I was vulnerable to giving in and telling all, because just before my diagnosis I received a notice that the student in question made a complaint about me. That could easily have convinced me to protect myself, although it would have exposed her questionable behavior and the faculty member who advised me.

This is an excellent post, and I thank you for it! As someone who is fascinated by the work of Stanley Milgram and Philip Zimbardo and the light shed by their studies on the banality of evil, I am particularly intrigued by the connections you make between the choices made by the subjects of those experiments and the choices we make as authors. Again, thank you.

I agree, Jan. Horrifying and humbling. When we look at those studies, we can no longer say that “good people would never do such a thing.” Because they have, and they do. And that’s some seriously scary stuff to contemplate.